Photo by Joao Melo Serrano
The time the room look dingy and you can’t seem to put down the cross you are carrying because it is playing tricks on you. Sit and ponder. Rethink. Take two. Excuse the darkness, the clutter. Don’t despair. Hand over your flag and escape through the open door. Search for a bridge and cross to the other side. Find the gift that surprises you.
Photo by Joao Melo Serreno
On verse one of the fully developed paragraph, beating at drums of my heated plush traits, I rebelled on my puberty becoming this new guided missile pole. In my adult life, I became him, the perfect persona, the crowd pleaser, the begged for mercy kind of gentile creature, the dazzled narrative latched in a page everyone desired.
He told me I was a bug, the fruit pie microbe mutating into a biscuit but I came to be pure as an ice water in a cooler.
Chopstick, the bird, gyrating bottle circumnavigated around a bubble of champagne soap, a shower of perfumed flowers engulfing the garden, a river serenely piercing the aqueduct and a horse journeying around the countryside. But everyone deliberately failed to remember that once upon a time, it was a gateway of caramel calmness that surrounded her crust, a glamour silk translucent light – oyster fountain of juice, lemonade of darling lollipops and a dishwasher of elevated gospely pedestal.
She artlessly succumbed to the hollow, consenting to the demands of her obnoxious asserted generational wantings . However, as strange as it seemed, repulsive as they may have found her, they were ready to give her props and entertained the idea that the bird was actually being candid for once. Yes, she was. The revelation was so intoxicating that it prompted the other birds to quickly deduce what went down with Chopstick and despite the sturdiness shower of jargons, the detective work went into high gear anyway.
ludlum drive 
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